1, 1, 64-65
by proosh
Summary: "It was wrong, so wrong. One plus one could never just be one, that was wrong and he knew it– He should have realised before he was elbow-deep in the other's chest, he should have known before taking his lover unto himself and trying to mesh two things into something more."


Have some unadulterated sin and unintelligible bullshit I sincerely regret writing.

It came about from a headcanon I had about nations absorbing one another, and was further inspired by the mechanics of the gems in Steven Universe, but not entirely.

Title is a reference to Othello.

* * *

It started with a single word.

All eyes of the assembled nations were locked onto America's. He was not Alfred in the meeting place, he was the representative and anthropomorphic incarnation of the nation of America itself. Which was why it was unusual to have him react in such a manner to Germany – not Ludwig – talking about assimilation of former East German citizens.

" _Bullshit._ " The tone was unusual, forceful. The blond had basically shot up from his seat, his face twisted into an almost _cruel_ snarl. The world stared at him in mute confusion, and Germany's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Do you have an objection, America?" Nobody wanted to anger the American, but nobody really wanted him to be sticking his business where it didn't belong.

An unusual series of expressions crossed over America's face. Or would it be Alfred's face? He opened his mouth to retort something, but visibly paused and worked something over, fingers curling around his pen.

"...No. I believe I misheard, my apologies," he conceded after a moment of deliberation, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he tightened them and sat down, looking distinctly like a cat caught in a trap. The rest of the nations pretended they weren't staring.

 _Pussy._

 _Shut up._

The meeting went along with it's usual shuddering, heaving pace as the nations struggled not to attack each other from across the room. America, in particular, watched the others like a hawk, an unusual weariness that manifested itself in dark lines under his eyes. It was particularly odd, because America was usually the last of the nation to show the signs of stress.

It was only after the meeting, during the process of packing up, when someone tried to approach the American about his outburst and subsequent behaviour that almost resembled that of a sulking child.

"Alfred?" Blue eyes glanced up and were briefly sharp before they softened.

"Yo, Arthur. Sorry 'bout earlier, I've been– Really tired lately."

 _Understatement of the century._

 _Shut up._

Arthur was distinctly different from the country he personified, and yet exactly the same. While he was the United Kingdom, he held himself with more pompous pride, whereas Arthur was content to sit and innately know of his own – real or imagined – superiority.

"Alfred, you've been like this for weeks now. Is something going on in the White House? Something in Wall Street that has yet to hit the rest of us?"

Alfred wasn't sure what to think about the Briton immediately jumping to things that might be wrong with America, rather than the person. Perhaps he should be annoyed about the dehumanisation, perhaps he should be happy that someone was actually noticing.

Nonetheless, he grinned broadly at the other and laughed, setting aside his paperwork into his suitcase. Ever organised, perhaps more so than in the past. "Nah, the Boss just has me workin' all night and sendin' me on flights all over. Normal diplomacy, I guess." He shrugged. "I don't see what the concern is."

Arthur's infamous eyebrows drew together, as certain as the shifting of continental plates.

"I've seen you tired. You drink enough coffee to buy out the countries from which it comes from, and then – somehow – get even louder and more obnoxious. Not... Like this." Alfred's heart was nearly touched by the level of concern Arthur was managing to display.

If anything, Alfred's grin grew bigger, to the point it was probably less a grin and more a display of his pearly-whites.

Appropriately, Arthur's scowl deepened, and the continental plates of his eyebrows started pressing against each other.

 _I wonder: If they keep smashing up like that, do you think they'll eventually crumble apart and then he'll have lots of little island eyebrows? Eyelands._

 _Shut up._

"I still don't see why you're worried," replied Alfred, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms behind his head. "Everyone gets a lil' run down at times."

"Not you," came the immediate answer, almost cutting off the last few words. " _You_ don't get 'run down'."

Alfred's lips twitched upwards, and the words he spoke with were not entirely his own.

"I wouldn't worry about it, honestly. I'm working on it."

It had been a bad idea from the start.

 _Have you done this before?_

 _A few times, yes. Before you were born._

He shouldn't have ever considered it, it was against nature, against every single thing he had ever considered.

 _Didn't you do this? Back after your Civil War?_

 _I barely remember it._

Back and forth they had gone, testing their boundaries with kisses and touches and nails sinking into flesh.

To say that sex was an extension of love was a cruel understatement, sex between the two was consummation and culmination, three hundred years of back-and-forth condensed into however it long for both of them to be satisfied. And then there would be words, words that neither of them understood.

 _You're dying,_ Alfred had said, one night.

 _I'm sorry._ Why had Gilbert apologised for that? The inevitable encroaching death sentence was not something either of them could avoid. That was the meaning of 'inevitable', after all.

 _When did it start?_

 _Reunification. I've been holding onto my old people. Now they want to just be German. Not 'East' or 'West'._

Alfred had been unable to ignore the way the already-white hair turned more ashen, the dullness in those fiery eyes.

 _I don't want you to die._

The terrible emotional dependence that plagued them both had probably been their downfall.

Part of him – that part that was not native – was almost offended at that thought, that idea.

 _What do I need to do to fix you?_

'Fix' was a terribly subjective verb.

If sex was an extension of love, then what he did was the purest example of it, the utmost demonstration of complete and utter devotion.

'Kill' also happened to be a subjective verb.

"What did you _do?"_ Arthur hissed, sliding into England at the last word.

It wasn't America that replied, but instead something _more_. "I did what needed to be done."

He regretted it.

Pain and images of times long past tugged at his head and heart, the screaming of a million lost souls reminding him of a pain and past that was not his _._ Part of him was apologising, part of him was resisting, another part was curling into a ball, and another was struggling against him with red eyes that had not seen such fire in seventy years.

"I'm sorry," came the words that was not his own, and a lash of steel carved it's way across the frontal lobe of his brain.

It was wrong, so wrong. One plus one could never just be _one_ , that was wrong and he knew it– He should have realised before he was elbow-deep in the other's chest, he should have known before taking his lover unto himself and trying to mesh two things into something more.

Gilbert had been weak, but he had not been dead– _Prussia_ had not been dead, and Prussia was by his very nature a being of war and bringer of destruction. He had survived and clawed his way from the bombs and camps and had risen to the top on the back of the Iron Curtain.

And now, he was clawing his way to the top on the back of Alfred's psyche.

"I'm _sorry,"_ was his own words, and his fingers unwillingly dug into his palms as he writhed, four beings compressed into two compressed into one all vying for power.

Alfred and Gilbert were one and the same, the physical boundaries between themselves eradicated. He was still Alfred, but he was not: he was greater than the sum of himself.

But America? America did not submit, America did not let others encroach on his individuality.

And therein laid the problem.

"Alfred–" The Briton actually looked concerned as he leaned in, causing America to lean back further in his chair. He had developed rather anti-social habits lately, but he doubted they would stick around much longer.

Those weaker, negative habits seemed to be slowly removing themselves as things settled into place.

"Are you just going to bitch at me? I _am_ an adult now, believe it or not."

England had the decency to look offended.

"You should have told m–"

"What, so you could run off and tell Ludwig? He would have done the same thing. At least Gilbert wanted this. We're both better off this way. _I'm_ better off this way."

Fingers curled inside him, and Alfred inhaled sharply.

He had always been good at this, those fingers paler than his own had been long and graceful and knew every place to touch him.

"F-Fuck–" He hissed, his other hand gripping his cock desperately, humping into his hand and biting into the pillow.

There was no sanity in this, only pleasure and the cycle of fucking and being fucked in equal amounts.

He moaned as he rolled his hips upwards, trying to get deeper, faster, the little voice in the back of his head whispering _that's it baby take it I'm here for you I love you take it for me baby c'mon babe_ and he couldn't escape, even as words in reply spilled from his mouth.

They were senseless, everything was senseless. For a while he could pretend that the fingers were not his, he could pretend that the hushed promises and pleads was a coherent conversation, rather than simple a half and a bit of two people trying to make love through a singular form.

There was the underlying roughness, the darkness pulling at the edge his his mind that made another finger slip in before he was ready, earning a hiss and a curse and an apology all in the same breath.

Gilbert and Alfred were one and the same, so they made do with what they had. Of course, individuality was not their issue. They were happy. Gilbert was Alfred, and Alfred was Gilbert just as much.

It was the other, unmentioned parts of their psyche that didn't mesh as well. Prussia _wanted_ so much more, he wanted everything or nothing; America wanted nothing or everything.

Prussia was the cruel curl of the fingers against Alfred's prostate, America was the hissing and the bucking of the hips.

He shuddered and buried his head into the pillow, ass in the air and arm struggling to fuck him in a satisfactorily manner, fingers too short and not thick enough and not _his_ even if they were guided by the part of Alfred's head that wasn't entirely his own.

He sobbed in frustration, the hand not knuckle-deep in his hole fisted around his cock as he ground down onto it and the bed, and he could almost feel the apologetic kisses across his back, the filthy words in his ear he couldn't even begin to translate.

 _come for me babe I'm right here I'll always be here I love you it's alright just let go_

It wasn't as easy as that, it was never as easy as that, but the digits in his tight heat pressed against that spot and fucked it and he was almost aware of himself screaming in two languages as the world went white.

It was inelegant, it was never simple or easy. It was confusing and frustrating as any physical sex could be, but senseless and incoherent and beautifully out of control.

He curled into himself and tried to wipe himself off as best as possible onto the sheets. There was no warmth beside him or atop him, and even the little voices in the back of his head was silent.

A more base, instinctual part of himself was roiling with hatred and disgust and he could feel the vomit rising in his throat. He wanted to be okay, he wanted to be at peace, but instead his heart was tearing itself apart as two parts of himself struggled for dominance.

Nails dug into his hands as a shuddering exhale escaped from his lips, fire of a memory not his own flashing across his skin.

He often got like that after his perverted, unnatural sex, the additional thoughts and memories and _personality_ slowly being reconstituted into his own consciousness and understanding of the world. Every day the pain struck closer to his heart, every day America hardened its defences.

Every day he could feel Gilbert dying within himself.

The look of horror was progressively creeping onto England's face.

"You– You don't know what you've done! Did he coerce you into this? We can fix thi–"

Alfred felt anger rise, red fury that robbed him of his breath. He wouldn't be denied his existence, his life would not be forfeited because some old man wanted to cling onto a boy that no longer existed.

" _'He'_ is _me_ now, don't you get it?" The words were venomous, and Alfred slammed his suitcase closed. "There is no 'Gilbert' or 'Alfred', there is just _me_. America. There is nothing to 'fix'," he said the word, sneering and rising to his feet. He was taller now. Not very noticeably, but enough to look down at England.

"Am I free to go, _Arthur_ , or are you going to keep clinging to the past?"

England slid away to reveal Arthur, his mouth hanging open. Slowly, the Brit lowered his eyes and his lips curved into an unhappy curve as he thought.

"...Who are you, then? You're not Alfred anymore. You're not Gilbert. Thank _Christ_ you're not Gilbert. And you're not America right now, so don't pull that card." The poor man sounded desolate, a hand running through his hair as green eyes cast a scorching glance up at the taller blond.

Alfred felt his anger cool down to a fine simmer, but could not keep the scowl off his face.

"I'm both of them. Simple. I don't understand why you don't get that." He could feel America stirring in the back of his head, raising itself from the thick fog of anger. "I'm both of them. I'm _better_ than them." It was as if repeating it made it more true.

Arthur's stare was impassive, and Alfred's lips turned into a sneer.

"You're not either of them, are you? You're different."

Alfred abruptly straightened and jerked his chin in the air, his sharp, too-sharp eyes narrowing in an icy glare.

"Whatever. It doesn't change the fact that I'm not who I was, and you're an old fool for thing I am."

The other's expression lightened, almost _sad._ What did he have to be sad about?

"You've changed."

"For the better." The words were on the heels of Arthur's as Alfred checked the clasps of his suitcase and yanked it to his side.

Arthur didn't have anything to say, apparently, sad green eyes watching as the taller blond turned on his heel and actually stalked out of the meeting room.

Of course had changed. Alfred had changed the moment Gilbert had given him the unspoken permission to– to do _that_ , to plunge his hand into the elder's chest and grip his heart and _consume_ it and–

 _It's done._

 _I know._

It had been done, there was no going back.

Perhaps he could pretend the cold shivers running down the back of his neck were warm fingers, pretend that the other side of the bed was not as empty as it was.

Perhaps he could pretend that his hands were not stained with the blood of his lover and himself, and that he had killed them both.

 _I'm sorry._

 _I know._


End file.
